


Broken, But Not

by grandfatherclock



Series: Hey Nonny, Nonny! [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Community: widojest love, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: She shakes her head. “All archmages arehideous.” She bugs out her eyes as she sayshideous, and Bren… Bren has to twist his face a little, so he doesn’t allow a choked laugh to escape his lips. “But if you wanted me to paintyou…” Her voice trails off a little, and her eyes almostrakeover him—his patterned suit jacket adorned with intricate floral designs, his ornate black dress shirt and vest, his well-fitting black trousers, his combed red hair…. Her momentary scowl widens into a full-on shit-eating smile. “It would be an honour to capture your beauty.”





	Broken, But Not

**Author's Note:**

> ily, poyo sin-bin!
> 
> This is rated as mature for references to sex.

Bren Aldric Ermendrud _sighs_.

The servant— _Geralt_ , he reminds himself, eyeing the man before him with a languid, searching gaze—winces, and then bows again, more deeply than before. "I apologize, sir," he says, the smooth cadence of his voice almost hiding the underlying hysteria behind his words. Bren watches with an eyebrow raised as the hat on Geralt's head actually slips to the floor from how low he's tilted his upper body. Geralt grimaces, and reaches for it, but Bren puts his hand. Geralt stills, hand frozen in midair.

"This is... disappointing, ja?" Bren gestures for the guard on his right to pick up the hat off the floor. "You've done a great dishonour on this house of which you are barely a member." Geralt is sweating, and Bren leans back in his chair. "Your mother _begged_ me give you a job. She said, _Herr Ermendrud, my son is useless, please have mercy_. I figured you couldn't possibly fuck up delivering my mail from the _mailroom_ to my _office_. And _yet_." The guard offers Bren the hat, and he takes it, considering it with his cool gaze.

"Monsieur Ermendrud—" Geralt says, his voice desperate. His eyes are a little wet.

Bren smiles, and sets the hat on fire in his hand. Geralt widens his eyes, and scrambles forward.

"Please, don't _burn_ yourself for me, Monsieur—"

"These gloves are fireproof, idiot," Bren snaps. "And _someone_ should be punished for the mistake of your employment. Now, tell me who it should be—you, your mother, or me." Geralt's eyes slide to the guards, looking both terrified  _and_  confused now, but they don't meet his gaze. Bren waits for Geralt to turn back to him, before he says, his voice coy, "Choose wisely."

Geralt says, miserably, "Me, monsieur." There are actual tears in his eyes now. "You may punish me."

Bren smiles, and waves to the guards. One of them saunters over to where Geralt is standing and grabs him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him aggressively outside the room. Geralt stumbles and stares back at him with horror in his eyes, and Bren watches with a bored gaze as they leave his chambers. “Pathetic,” he hisses, and then looks to the other guard, watching the subservient tilt of his head. “I want you to _find_ Lady Aucoin.” He clasps his gloved hands together, and the sound breaks the stiff silence caused by his pause in speech. “Tell her if she wants to save her _miserable_ , spoiled brat of a son from the shithouse, she will find me a _talented_ artist before the sun sets.”

“That’s —that’s about three hours, Herr Ermendrud,” the guard says.

Bren looks down at the letter Geralt was supposed to deliver to him _weeks_ ago. “You’re wasting her time,” he says, his voice soft. The guard grimaces, and walks out of the room, and Bren _glowers_  back at the letter. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, staring at the elegant signature of Archmage Ikithon.

He forces himself to take another sip of his wine, and not burn the paper, and the table, and _maybe_  himself.

* * *

Lady Aucoin is pretty when she’s scared. Her hair is done tight behind her head, and her painted lips are pulled into a stiff smile. She bows deeply, and Bren watches with a cold smile on his lips as her blue dress spreads over the expensive hardwood as she does so. “Herr Ermendrud,” she says, her voice soft and light. She bats her eyes at him very prettily—subtle to deny if he were to be offended by her flirtations, but obvious enough to attempt to entice him. Bren wonders if she really thinks he’s that easily swayed by her beauty, and from the slight grimace on her face from his lack of reaction, he supposes not. “I apologize for all the complications that my family has caused the house,” she says.

“Don’t look _put out_ with me, Mathilde,” Bren says, examining his nails. She stiffens at his use of her first name, and the insincere smile playing on his face widens. “I thought my terms were _very_ generous. Family’s… important.”

Lady Aucoin’s hands clench beside her, and she says, her words halting despite her perfectly pleased expression, “I have… an artist who is well-known in the lower districts. She isn’t… she’s _coarse_ , and her family fell out of favour when the Cerberus Assembly seized control of the monarchy, but the only requirement that passed by my ears was _talented_.” She shifts uncomfortably, and Bren tilts his head. The manor always runs a little hot, and Bren’s presence also fucks with the heat. It’s a little side-effect from all the experimentation in his youth, and oddly one he doesn’t find that unwelcome. “I did the best I could in the time you gave me.” She nearly stumbles through her words, but catches herself at the last second. There’s a tinge of… just _something_ in her accented voice.

Bren runs a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, his gaze on her considering. “If I get just the _slightest_ paper cut, Mathilde, because your artist from the dirt can’t behave themselves?” His smile becomes something like a half-snarl. “Your son is _dead_ , and your relationship to the house is _over_.” She stares at him with wide eyes, and he pulls out a handkerchief from his purple suit jacket’s pocket, and offers it to her.

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Herr Ermendrud?” Lady Aucoin's hands _twist_ in her dress.

“You’re sweating,” he murmurs.

The guards on either side of his throne exchange looks, and Lady Aucoin _flushes._ She reaches for the handkerchief, and then pulls away, staring at the fine cloth in her hand. “I hope this lady will work me back into your favour,” she says, her voice quiet.

Bren sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Bring her in,” he says to one of the guards, who then nods and exits the room. He snaps his fingers, and materializes Frumpkin into his lap, and runs a hand through the soft fur to try to ground himself. _Fuck_ , he thinks, imagining Archmage Ikithon waiting expectantly on his delivery. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ —

The double doors open, interrupting the string of curses in his head, and everyone’s gazes snap to them as the guard returns with a short brown-skinned woman in tow. She’s freckled, and _beaming_ , and wearing a ragged dress with embroidery that’s pretty enough. Her hair is choppy and in different lengths in different sections, but he can see a messy bun holding up her mess of dark hair in the back. The guard pushes her roughly, and shoves her in front of Bren’s throne, beside Mathilde. “Kneel,” they hiss.

The artist gives the guard a defiant look, her annoyance momentarily breaking her smile, but when Mathilde looks at her almost _pleadingly_ , she turns to Bren with her dark brown eyes, and nods her head in a jerky motion. “My lord,” she says, clenching her jaw just slightly.

“I present to you the Little Sapphire,” Mathilde says, a forced smile on her face. She puts a hand on the lady’s shoulder, and pushes her forward. “She’s done a couple works for me, and does _wonderfully well_ with watercolour painting…” Her voice trails off as Bren raises a hand. “Herr Ermendrud?”

“What’s your name?” Bren demands, his accented voice in a soft drawl.

“Jester,” she says, her hands clenched into fists—it oddly doesn’t seem to be out of contempt for Bren, but a barely contained energy. Stillness doesn’t suit her—her eyes are already dancing, looking at his throne, and his suit jacket, and his _face,_ with bright interest. “Jester Lavorre.”

_Lavorre._ He curls his lip, and looks to Lady Aucoin, who has become still. “ _A_ family who has fallen out of favour,” he muses. “You didn’t tell me it was _the_ family.” Everyone knows the sordid tale of how Marion Lavorre rejected the advances of one Archmage De’leth, and then promptly lost everything. Jester’s shoulders tense, and she almost _glares_ at him, but he gives her a smug smile back. “You’re all very lucky—the situation is desperate enough, and perhaps my master will even find this all slightly amusing.” He gives Lady Aucoin a disinterested wave. “You’re dismissed.”

“My son?” she asks, her voice weak.

He rolls his eyes. “He’ll be delivered to you.”

She gives him a grateful bow, and then gives Jester an even look, and they both watch her figure retreat outside the grand, opulent throne room within the manor.

Bren cuts through the silence first. “You’re an _artist_?” He looks to Jester’s calloused hands and tanned skin with distaste, and raises an eyebrow.

Something about his drawling, accented contempt makes her snap her head up, and give him a wide smile with all her teeth. "Ja," she says, standing up straight. Her eyes are bright and glittering, and he can  _see_ the royalty on her, even now that she’s just a penniless labourer. "I'm _really_ good, but I can't make you beautiful if you _aren't_."

One of the guards nearly drops his shield, and Bren bares his teeth into a mild half-snarl, half-smile. _Oh_ , this one has _guts_. He wonders how long that will take to break, and if she looks to the jewelled throne and his pretty clothes and the opulent manor and thinks that all this should be _hers._ "You don't think I'm very beautiful?" He's genuinely curious.

Jester smiles, and her face is almost _indulgent_. "I think you're _very_ beautiful. I just hope you aren't commissioning me for your _boss_."

Bren almost _smirks_. “Master Ikithon looks good for his age,” he breathes out.

She shakes her head. “All archmages are _hideous_.” She bugs out her eyes as she says _hideous_ , and Bren… Bren has to twist his face a little, so he doesn’t allow a choked laugh to escape his lips. “But if you wanted me to paint _you_ …” Her voice trails off a little, and her eyes almost _rake_ over him—his patterned suit jacket adorned with intricate floral designs, his ornate black dress shirt and vest, his well-fitting black trousers, his combed red hair…. Her momentary scowl widens into a full-on shit-eating smile. “It would be an honour to capture your beauty.”

Oh. _Oh_. Bold little minx. He wonders what play she’s trying to make here, flirting so openly and recklessly with him. Lady Aucoin’s face falls when she makes even the slightest misstep, but Jester’s eyes openly admire him, and it’s… it’s _interesting_. “I _do_ need you to paint me,” he says, and she clasps her hands together in delight. “My master requires a painting of me. You’ll be financially compensated—400 gold for an 18 by 24 inch portait. I need it finished in six days. Will that suffice?”

Jester’s eyes widen, and she coughs. “Well, you _know_ … I’m _really_ in demand and this _is_ last minute…” Bren raises an eyebrow, clasping his hands together on one of his knees that’s crossed over his other, and she flushes a little as he leans forward. “But since I like you _so much_ , I will _accept_ your price.” She steps forward, and both of Bren’s guards move in front of him. Jester raises her hands. “Sorry, I just… I thought maybe I could see your features up close?” Jester beams at him.

Bren studies her pleasant smile, and she’s _shaking_ with excitement. He finally gestures for the guards to move out of her way, and she nearly _squeals_ , walking up close and leaning over him. Her cold hand reaches out and strokes the side of his cheek, part of her hand under his jaw. Her thumb is under his chin, tilting his head up. “Are you done, Lavorre?” He makes sure his voice is flat.

Her eyes search his face. “You have light freckles along the bridge of your nose,” Jester says, sounding delighted. “Your eyes are even _paler_ up close, and your cheekbones are so _delicate._ The light from these arcane lights makes your hair almost _glow_ —and speaking of your hair, did you _know_ how _well_ they frame your skin? You’re _gorgeous_.” She seems very pleased about that fact.

“I did know all those things,” Bren says. “But your keen eye is… appreciated.”

“I can’t _wait_ to paint you, my lord.” There’s something in the way she says his title, in the way that her voice drops slightly, like her cloying accented voice has made it all her own, that makes him want to do… reckless things. “I’ll bring my supplies tomorrow.”

“Five o’clock post meridiem,” he says, and he gently pulls her hand away with his. He watches the way her eyes drop to their momentarily intertwined fingers. “Don’t be late.”

She smiles. “I’ll see you.” There’s something teasing in how she speaks, like this is a _date_ and not a _job_ , and he watches her nearly _skip_ away from him. Jester pauses as she reaches the door, and turns, giving him a coy look. He tilts his head in expectation, but she just shakes her head, still smiling, and walks out, closing the double doors behind her.

Curiouser and curiouser. He clears his throat, and looks to the guard to his right. “Give her anything she needs,” he says, trying to make his voice as calm and languid as it was earlier.

The guard nods. “Of course, my lord.”

Bren tries to get that freckled face out of his head for many hours. He fails, but he certainly _tries_.

* * *

Jester Lavorre _squeals_ into her pillow.

Marion sighs. “Jester.” Her voice is soft. “I know we need the money, but I don’t… if you get too entangled with this man…”

Jester sits up on her bed, and gives her mother anxiously fiddling with a bracelet an encouraging smile. “Mama, it isn’t _like_ that.” She pats the space on her bed beside her, and Marion hesitates for a second, before she walks with a smooth, graceful gait to Jester’s bed, sitting beside her. “He’s not _old_ and _crusty_ —he’s actually really pretty, and has a _really nice_ jaw—and he doesn’t even seem that _interested_ in me.” She pouts just a little.

Marion’s worried expression smoothes over just a little, and amusement plays out on her face. “Oh, Jester. You _want_ him to be interested.” The sunlight from Jester’s window reflects brilliantly on Marion’s skin, making her brown skin glow and seem ethereal, and Jester is reminded that though the archmages stole all their money and all their status, they couldn’t steal Marion’s grace. “I can help with that, too.”

“Really?” She puts her hands on her cheeks, and crosses her legs.

Marion runs her hand through Jester’s hair, loosening the bun to redo it. “Paint the portrait, Jester. Make it the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. There is _nothing_ more alluring than competency.”

Jester sighs. This is… the fact that Lady Aucoin requested _her_ , the fact that someone so important even _knew_  about her art—it’s game-changing. Jester has been struggling for years, working the land all day and sometimes into the night to make money, money for her _art_ and her _supplies_ and to buy _train tickets to go to galleries_ and all this hard work, all this schmoozing, all the sacrifices she and her mother have made… they’re finally crawling their way back up. _Suck on this, De’leth_ , Jester thinks, as Marion absentmindedly fiddles with a necklace adorning her neck. “Is that _new_ , Mama?”

Marion looks down at the pretty silver pendant. “Oh,” she says, widening her eyes slightly. “One of my clients gifted it.” She sees Jester admiring it, and she smiles, her face soft. “It doesn’t really… match my complexion.”

Jester shakes her head, her hands up in a _hold up_ sort of motion. “Mama, _everything_ matches your complexion.” Marion starts taking it off, and Jester begins furiously shaking her head even faster. “Mama, no, no, no—” She’s _stumbling_ over her words, hating the fact that she really does genuinely want that beautiful necklace. It would flatter her freckled brown skin so well, but she’s being so _selfish_ , he mother has lost _enough…_

“My Jester,” Marion says, and she begins to drape the necklace on Jester. She stills as her mother’s fingers click it together behind her neck. “You look _lovely_.”

“Mama…” Jester bites her bottom lip. “I don’t… I wasn’t trying to—”

Marion _pulls_ her into a hug, and sets her chin on Jester’s head. “I was going to give you the best life,” she whispers. “I’m… I couldn’t do that, but I can give you this pendant. I can help you woo this boy.”

Jester wraps her arms around Marion. “Having no money _sucks_ , Mama.” She tries to keep her voice light, even as her entire body trembles. “But it’s the best life because I have the coolest mom in the world.”

They stay like that for a while. It’s _nice_. Jester doesn’t think about gold and necklaces and lords. She simply hugs her mother, and pretends the walls around her room don’t tremble when there’s a particularly large gust of wind battering against them.

* * *

Bren Aldric Ermendrud is _enchanting_ to paint.

He’s wearing another suit that Jester absolutely _adores_ —the suit jacket is red and purple, in pretty floral patterns, and his dress shirt, vest and trousers are all that characteristic black. His hair is soft and perfect and frames his lovely face just as nice as it did before, and his _eyes_ … he’s sitting next to a window, and his eyes reflect the blistering afternoon sun so _well_. He’s posing behind his desk, and Jester is painting him, biting her lower lip as she tries to capture the intricacies of his face.

“Lavorre—” he begins, and his eyebrows furrow, _ruining_ the perfect stillness.

“Smooth out your _forehead_ ,” she interrupts, giving him a pointed look. “There’s only _two_ days, and the shading is _so_ important. The sun is only in this angle for a certain period, we can’t—”

“It’s been _hours_.” He looks irritated, but he smoothes out his expression like she demanded, and that makes her practically _beam_ in delight. “I have _work_ that I need to do, I can’t just pose here all day.”

She _glares_ at him. “Well, if I had _weeks_ and not _days_ , then you could do your _work_.”

Bren flits his eyes away, and he sighs. “I’m… you’re right.” He looks… _anxious_ , almost. His shoulders are a little tense, and his breathing is tight. “I don’t… my master expects things to be very prompt. I haven’t let him down yet.”

Jester pushes some of her hair back, and tilts her head to look at him past the canvas. “Your master will be _angry_ with you if you don’t deliver this portrait on time?” She scrunches her nose. “But it wasn’t your _fault_ , fucking Geralt is useless.” His lips quirk up a little at that, and it’s a stunning sight. “I’m sure if you _explain_ , like how _I_ do to Mama when the oil runs out because I kept the lamp lit all night to work on sketches, he’ll _understand_.”

Bren gives her a look that’s almost bitter. He really does look like an angel right now, with his hair glowing in the light and his frame washed in orange-yellow-red light, with expensive, silk cloth adorning his pale, delicate-seeming body. “Master Ikithon isn’t the… understanding type.”

Jester sets down her brush, and walks over to Bren, who watches her movement with his jaw tensed. She leans over him, slightly adjusts the position of his chair, and whispers in his ear, “I _told_ you that all archmages are _hideous_.”

He looks to her, his face a little astonished, and then he actually lets out a weak half-laugh. Jester smiles. “You’re—that’s fucking _treasonous_ , Lavorre.”

She sticks out her forked tongue at him. “You like me too _much_ to arrest me, Lord Ermendrud.” His eyes darken a little as she addresses him with his proper title, and she smirks. “I won’t… I’ll try to be as fast as I can.” She bites her bottom lip. “It’s just… this is my biggest job, you know? I can’t just…” Jester lets her voice trail off, and awkwardly rubs the nape of her neck, hoping he can understand, but how the fuck can this glittering, beautiful dream of a person  _understand?_ He doesn’t look like he’s toiled a day in his life.

Bren meets her gaze. His eyes are hesitant. “It’s your biggest job, and if you fuck up, you lose future opportunities.” His tone is dispassionate and succinct, but his eyes aren’t… there’s something _shifting_ in them. She wonders if for the first time she’s seeing the creature under his skin. “I’m sorry that the incompetence of my staff has put you in this position, Lavorre.”

Jester tries not to widen her eyes. She never thought lords _apologized_ —her mother says all lords are full of _shit_. She feels her cheeks and neck flush, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “Oh,” she says, weakly. “It’s… it’s alright.” She pauses for a second, and then says, “I need this for my family, you know? So if I don’t finish this job in time, I’m letting _them_ down.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and pulls back, walking back to her canvas.

“Letting them down,” Bren repeats, and when Jester turns back to look at him, he looks almost _stricken_ , before his face is remade, and he looks like a perfect, _smarmy_ angel in the setting sun again. “I don’t… I suppose we have something in common.”

Jester wiggles her eyebrows. “Also, we’re both _really_ hot.”

Bren stares at her, before he sighs, deeply, and she smirks, picking up her brush and continuing to try to perfect the bridge of his nose. They fall into a soft, companionable silence after that, and Bren doesn’t complain as much, remaining still and pretty for her. It makes Jester wonder absentmindedly what _else_ she could have him do, how _else_ she could make him pose as she painted his figure with painstaking detail. When the sun gets low and she begins to pack up her brushes and supplies, he finally stretches his limbs, slumping in his chair.

She giggles. “ _Tired_?” He reminds her a little of a cat —lazy and languid and smug. “Maybe I could give you a _massage_.”

Bren raises an eyebrow, and silently watches her continue pack up her things. He runs a hand through his hair, and _oh_ , that’s _delightful_ —he looks a little wild like this, with his hair slightly dishevelled. Almost _normal_ , like she could run into him in the market. Jester wonders how good he’d look with his nice clothes equally messed up. “Lavorre, would your mother be worried if you’re an hour late?”

Jester freezes momentarily, and then flushes, looking to his perfectly even face. “ _Oh_ , I mean”—she runs a hand through her hair and nervously giggles—“she would _worry_ , but she wouldn’t be _scared_ until I was late like two or _three_ hours, you know?” She looks to the desk, and then back to Bren, and bites her lip. “You want to do it _here_?”

“No— _what_?” He wrinkles his nose, and then understanding dawns on his expression. “ _No_ , I’m not _propositioning_ you, Lavorre.”

Jester feels her face turn a darker shade of brown from embarrassment. _Stupid_ , she scolds herself. _He could have any woman he wants, why would he pick an annoying artist with fucked up clothes?_

Bren’s face _also_ flushes, though his skin is an understated pink. He awkwardly gets up and pats her shoulder, before going back to his desk, and she freezes to his touch for just a second. “I’m… I have people who massage others for a _living_ , it would be better than anything _I_ could… schiesse.” He’s _blushing_ , Bren Aldric Ermendrud is _blushing_ , and despite this situation Jester can’t help but beam a little at seeing that smug, shitty veneer crack for even just an instant.

“I _disagree_ , my lord,” Jester says, playing with a loose thread in her dress. “But if I would _love_ anybody’s massage.”

“When you’re a famous artist,” Bren murmurs, opening his spellbook on his desk as he sits in his chair, “ _please_ raise your standards.” His eyes flick to her momentarily, and there’s _something_  in the lazy curl of his lips, and the brightness of his gaze, and it’s making Jester feel just a _little_ crazy.

“You look like you have nice, talented fingers,” Jester retorts, finally finished packing up. She looks to her canvas and sighs. _Almost done_. It’s always the _details_  at the last moments that trip her up. It’s the details that make the portrait look _alive_.

“Talented, maybe,” Bren murmurs, and Jester furrows her eyebrows just a _leetel_ , but he’s already casting his spell. From the somatic gestures he’s making, she can tell it’s _Sending_ —arcane where hers is divine, but _still_. Immediately recognizable. He says something in Zemnian, his voice cold and assertive and _demanding_ , and cocks his head slightly, as he receives a message in turn. Bren’s cool eyes slide to Jester, and he gives her a stiff smile. “Someone is coming to take you to get a massage.”

“ _Cool_ ,” she gushes. “I like your _trick_ , I can do it _too_.”

Bren tilts her head, and there’s _interest_ playing out on his handsome face. “You’re a wizard?”

She shakes her head, and beams slightly. “I’m a _cleric_.”

Bren leans forward in his chair, a little like a coiled snake. She watches how the expensive suit jacket and vest and all those _layers_ shift and stretch and move with his frame. “Lavorre,” he says, his voice pleasant. “Is this an _approved_ god?”

Jester stills. _Merde_. “... Yes?” Her voice is high, and from his clenched jaw, he can tell she’s _lying through her teeth_.

Bren sighs, deeply. “Have you ever been to prison?” Jester looks down and shakes her head, and he nearly _glares_ at her. “I _have_. It’s _awful_. Please be careful, your mother has lost _enough_.”

“You could just not _arrest me_. I figured you liked me too much to just _arrest me_.” Jester’s voice is quiet. “You could just not arrest _anyone_.”

Bren’s face _twists_ , and he hisses, “You’re out of fucking line.” Jester is used to people getting more animated when they’re angry, but he’s frighteningly still, every part of his body tensed. His jaw is still clenched, and his eyes are _trained_ on her. “I thought this job was _important_ to you.”

Jester _hates_ the biting insinuation in his voice. “It _is_.” She looks away. There’s an ensuing tense silence, where Bren stares down his spellbook, and Jester covers her canvas. A knock at the door causes Jester to jump, and Bren to snap his head to the door. He says something in Zemnian and a woman comes in, wearing the ornate reds and purples that make up the uniforms of the manor.

Bren’s shoulders  _slump_ , and sighs. “Still want that massage, Lavorre?”

Jester _glares_ at him. “Non, merci.” She picks up her bags, says quietly, “Don’t fuck up the canvas.” Jester walks out the door, pushing past the masseuse, and she can _feel_ Bren’s cool gaze follow her as she walks.

_Fuck_ , she thinks, as she leaves the manor and guards open the gates for her. She feels so _small_ , walking in her ragged dress down the road, where the fine pavement slowly devolves into dirt. She _knew_ he was wretched, she _knew_ he worked for an archmage—she flirted with him because it was _fun_ , and because he’s _beautiful_ , so why is she so fucking disappointed? _Could’ve been a repeat customer_ , Jester thinks, and _fuck_ , her breath is a little uneven. _If you hadn’t mentioned the Traveler, he could’ve_ —

Jester’s brutal, punishing thoughts die down as she feels an ethereal hand on her shoulder, and she stops walking. It’s dark out, but he’s still glittering beside her. His billowing green cloak is as lovely as ever, and he’s smiling softly. _That was brave_.

Jester shakes her head. “That was _stupid_ , we need the _money_ —”

_Brave_ , the Traveler insists.

Jester looks down, and angrily stomps her feet a little as she continues walking forward, in the direction of the residential area. “He didn’t even notice the _necklace_ ,” she hisses. It’s funny how the little, insignificant shit dwells on her, but the Traveler doesn’t call her petty, or stupid.

He just laughs, shaking his head with affection.  _He noticed. Don’t worry, my girl_ — _you’ve wormed yourself into his head forever._

Jester is silent for a moment. “You’re… you’re proud of me?” Her voice is small.

He comes close, and pulls her into an embrace. Jester closes her eyes, and he whispers in her ear, _So proud._

She opens her eyes, and he’s gone, but it’s _fine_. Jester smiles all the way home, smiles at the children who wave at her as she passes by the orphanage, and smiles through her ragged crying in her bed.

* * *

“You did it,” Bren breathes. He admires the portrait in front of him—his face, his coiffed hair, his pretty clothes, his desk, the sun’s light playing out on his face, his gloves, just _everything_ , she’s captured _everything_. He tries not to think about how lovingly the curves of his cheekbones are painted, or his _lips_ , or the colours of his eyes, or the light freckles along his nose. He tries not to think about how long she must’ve _stared_ at him.

Jester looks away. “I said I would.” She was distant the past couple days, cooling it with the blatant heresy and treason, but she doesn’t joke anymore, doesn’t find excuses to come close, and Bren… he doesn’t know what to _do_.

He simply tosses her a bag full of platinum coins, and Jester opens it, eyes widening slightly before she stuffs it into her bag. “Merci,” she murmurs. “I guess I should leave, then.” She runs a hand through her curly brown hair, and he forces his eyes away. “Thank you for the opportunity, my lord.” Jester sighs, and begins to leave his office, her shoulders slightly slumped.

“Wait,” Bren says, and she stills, turning her head to look back at him. “I wish to… apologize.”

Jester’s face tilts slightly, and she turns, crossing her arms. There’s paint all over her dress, and on her arms, and she’s as freckled and toned and pretty as ever, and it’s _distracting_. “This is the second time you’re saying sorry.” It’s impossible from her tone to make out what she  _means_ by that.

Bren crosses his arms, and drums his fingers against his sleeve. “I’m sorry I laughed at your joke about archmages.” Shame tinges his voice. “It was… it encouraged you where it shouldn’t have, and that’s on me.”

Jester is silent for a moment, and Bren watches her face. “… _That’s_ what you’re sorry about?” There’s something _off_ in her voice, but she’s smiling stiffly. “Laughing at my _joke_?”

Bren nods, looking away.

“My lord.” Jester’s voice is hesitant, and thick with _something_. Something that makes her words drag a little. “Can I ask you a question? It might… it might make you uncomfortable.”

Bren furrows his eyebrows. After a considering pause, he sighs. “Why not, Lavorre?”

Jester plays with a loose strap on her dress. “Why aren’t your fingers _nice_?” He stares at her, a little stunned, and she flushes, just slightly. “You said your fingers were _talented_ , but not _nice_.”

_Oh, Jester_. “Why do you—this would be so much easier if you could just—” Bren cuts himself off, feeling the slightest bit of hysteria in his voice, and runs a gloved hand through his hair. “Why does it _matter_ to you?”

Jester gives him an even look. That hollow smile still plays on her lips. “I don’t know.”

Bren clenches his hands into fists, and then almost aggressively pulls off his gloves, nearly thrusting the blackened, burnt fingers of his right hand towards Jester. She doesn’t flinch, but the insincere smile recedes a little, and there’s something soft in her face. “ _Happy_?” He practically  _spits_ that word out at her.

Jester walks a little closer, and examines his hands up close, scrunching her nose as she considers them. Bren resists the urge to flinch away. “But I thought you said they weren’t _nice_.”

He smiles with all his teeth. “Don’t patronize me, Lavorre.”

“I _don’t_.” Jester stares at him with her sharp gaze. “I’ve _never_ patronized you. I’ve been honest.”

“Your _flirtations_ —”

“ _I meant them_.” Her voice is so forceful that he falls silent, not even being able to muster annoyance at being interrupted. Her gaze slides to his hands, and she reaches out with her own, putting her hand against his. He stares with wide eyes. “Your calluses match mine,” she whispers. “You’re…”

“I come from the dirt,” Bren admits, not quite knowing why he’s being honest with this woman he barely knows.

“Now you hurt other people from the dirt,” Jester says. “Is this… is this worth the cost?”

Bren nearly sneers. “What do _you_ think?”

Jester pulls her hand away, and gives him a weak smile. “I think you’re _very_ beautiful, my lord. More beautiful than you are hideous.” She begins to walk away, away from his stunned silence, and pauses near the doorway. “You’re _very_ hideous, so you must have an inkling how wonderful I think you are.”

He stares, and stares, and _stares_. He stares long after she’s gone, and then looks to the canvas, and resists the urge to _tear_ it to shreds.

* * *

Jester Lavorre is happy, she thinks.

She’s getting more work. Apparently the people in Rexxentrum were _very_ impressed with her painting of the lord of the Zemni Fields, and she’s been getting letters—requests to visit Rexxentrum and Zadash, and paint various nobles and mages. Bren when he visited last was _smirking_. “Lavorre, De’leth fucking _hates_ you.”

Oh, right. Bren _visits_.

She didn’t see him for a _month_ , and then one day, there was a knock. It was a pale blonde woman, but then she leaned close and whispered in her ear, in a very familiar, _posh_ Zemnian voice, “It’s Bren, Lavorre.”

Bren. _Bren_. Not _my lord_. Not _Herr Ermendrud_. She couldn’t help but beam as she let him into her small house, and watched him pace her floor, his boots clicking against her floor. He allowed the _Disguise Self_ to fizzle out and turned to her. “Lavorre,” he said, interrupting the silence, and she snapped her head up from admiring his beautifully designed red suit jacket.

“Ja, Bren?”

He came close to her. They were separated by the kitchen counter and he leaned over, his pale blue eyes searching her expression. “I’m hideous to the bone,” he confessed, his voice smooth like the fact _barely_ bothered him. “You’ve consumed my thoughts.”

She blinked, eyes wide. “Oh.”

His voice became slightly low. “If you’d have a wretched man, I’d like to see you.”

_Have him?_ Jester wrung her hands, and gave him a teasing, considering gaze to hide how _nervous_ she felt. “You’d like to visit,” she repeated. “Even though I’m… I worship the Traveler.”

Bren sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve figured I was ruined from the second you came in and nearly made me break into laughter in front my guards.” He sounded vaguely impressed. “I’m not going to… change. I’m not going to improve. But if you want what I am—”

“I _do_ ,” Jester said, but her eyebrows furrowed. “But the _Traveler_ is _important_ , and I can’t just stop talking about him because it makes _you_ upset, and I can’t just _not_ make jokes about the bastards who stole _everything_ from Mama.”

“You don’t have to,” Bren said, his hands up. “I just… may I visit you, Lavorre?” There was almost a tinge of _desperation_ in his voice.

Jester had to smile. Desperation sounded good on him. “It wouldn’t be real _holy_ of me to have you visit,” Jester murmured. His shoulders slumped just slightly, and her smile widened. “But I think… this isn’t a very holy time.”

Bren raised his eyebrows. “What do—”

Jester pulled him close, into a heated, open-mouthed kiss, and his hands were _immediately_ in her hair, and _oh_ , he was _good_ —

Jester Lavorre slept with him that night, and she was right, it _wasn’t_ very holy. It was _desperate_ , and it was _fun_ , and it was _strange_ , seeing all those scars and calluses on him, feeling his hands on her, having those bright and searching eyes truly _see her_. She’s kind of addicted to that sensation now.

So, Bren _visits._ And the Traveler was _right_ , he totally noticed that silver pendent. He plays with it absentmindedly sometimes when they're sitting on the couch, and she’s sketching and he’s reading, and it's _wonderful_. She shouldn’t have doubted her god for a _second._

Marion kisses her forehead as she comes into her room. Jester beams at her, in the middle of painting. She can afford to actually paint in the _day_ now, with all this new attention on her. Marion offers her a cup of coffee, and Jester puts down her paintbrush, reaching for it. “You’re amazing, Jester.” There’s awe in her voice.

“Love you, Mama,” she murmurs.

Marion hugs her from behind, and Jester leans back into her. Tomorrow, Bren will visit, and they’ll  _fuck_. He might even be honest with her, more than half-breathes at a time. Next week, she’ll visit Zadash, to meet some new clients. She and Mama are going to be okay.

Jester sips her coffee, stares at the canvas, and tries not to lose herself in the very beautiful future that’s starting to _become_ , right in front of her.


End file.
